


void of the fire

by lacunia



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, POV Neil Josten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29919051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacunia/pseuds/lacunia
Summary: The aftermath of Mary Hatford's death.
Relationships: Neil Josten & Mary Hatford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	void of the fire

**Author's Note:**

> hello! here's a quick thing I just managed to wip up. 
> 
> this has a small amount of self-harm, but it's not like. suicidal or anything it's just basically Neil hurting himself in his own grief. there's also swearing, but I think that's it for the warnings. contact me on tumblr (lacuniaa) if you have any concerns!
> 
> enjoy!

It doesn't hit him until he's in the hotel.

He can still smell the crude scent of her burning flesh, still hear the sickening sound of her skin stripping off of the vinyl seats. He can hear the crackling toxic fire, the sound of her bones clanging together in his bag as he carries her to her gravesite in the sand like a fucking pet hamster.

He still has the blood under his fingernails, still has the whisper of her words and promises in his ears. He can feel the phantom hard texture of her cold, dead stomach on his palm and can feel the headache in the back of his eyes, pounding heavily.

And yet, he doesn't cry. Not when her eyes go glassy and lifeless, a woman once so determined and full of fight now no more than a carcass, a corpse. Not when the car burns and blisters into the night sky, a dirty lie of gasoline and flesh. Not when he's staring down at the phone, realising that...this is it.

This is it.

He walks down the gravel road because he simply can't do anything else. His legs start to shake half-way through his trek, and he hitchhikes with a trucker to the nearest hotel, silent and cold. He hangs onto his duffel bag for dear life because it's all he has left.

He's alone now.

He steps into the shady hotel and gets a room easily, the employee not even sparing him a glance. The steps are creaky, the walls are several different colours, the windows are barred and the room is messy. He doesn't care, though.

He needs to. He needs to...he needs to what?

He thinks back to his mother. What would she say? She would...she would tell him to get himself together, that's right. He needs to shower, and then he needs to rest, and then he needs to move and get another id...needs another passport, maybe be eighteen.

She would slap him over the head. First he needs to check for injuries. Injuries. Injuries, that's right. He shoves his bag under the single bed, locks the door behind him and shoves a chair under the handle for good measure.

He goes into the bathroom, locks that door behind him too, looks at the mirror-- _avoid the face, the eyes, the past, present and future_ \--strips his shirt off, stretches his fingers across his body to see if there's any cuts that need stitches.

There's nothing but bruises. Nothing but a buzzing noise in his ears. He can't feel anything.

He gets in the shower, turns the hot water up all the way, viscously scrubs his skin until it's red raw. He thinks about his hair-dye, his eye contacts, his next alias, his next stop. Arizona, maybe. A small town. He can stay a couple semesters, and then skip to another place.

And then again. And then again. And then again. Until he's dead.

Until he's dead.

His fingers shake around the soap, and he realises he's frozen, staring at the wall. He shakes his head roughly, smacks a hand against the side of his head and tugs at his hair angrily, imagining his mother telling him to get it together. Get it together. Get it together.

He gets out of the shower, gets changed, runs angry streaks of red up his forearms with his nails, stares at the bathroom door.

The buzzing in his ears won't stop.

It's so. It's so fucking annoying.

He rips the door open, tries to breathe, tries to count to ten. His throat is closing up, but he ignores it, he needs to rest, he needs to get ready to go, he needs to _get it together._

He stands in the middle of the room. He stares at the ground with wide-eyes, with small pupils that shake with...grief.

Grief.

A snarl rips through his face, tearing it in two, and he _moves._

He kicks the chair away from the door, slams it against the wall and then against the ground. He claws at his face, slams his head into the wood, rips the lightbulb from the roof and smashes it to the floor. He throws the glass pieces into the wall and kicks at the bed and punches the furniture until his knuckles crack and crease. He rips the barred wood from the window and hits the walls and ground with it, relishing in the jolt of pain he receives when the nails dig into his skin.

His breath comes out too fast. His vision shakes, but he keeps moving. Keeps wrecking things silently, fat streams of tears sliding down his face as he screams internally. He's _alone._ He's _alone_. He's _always_ going to _be alone._

He grabs the phone from the duffel bag and uses his foot to break it, and then he goes to the bathroom, shreds at the sink and the metal and the counter, ripping his fingernails and thin, tight flesh. He breaks part of the mirror, and then he screams and sobs into his elbow and bites his skin and _get it together._

A wretched, guttural cry escapes him, and he slides to the ground, his back to the sink counter. Blood slithers down his face slowly from the open scratch marks, the smash against the wall. It oozes from his knuckles and nails, red surfacing to the top of the skin, forming bruises. His feet ache from kicking and hitting, and his entire being shakes viscously as the sobs escape him.

_This is it._

This is what life is, and what it always will be.

He's nobody, nothing. He'll always be nothing. His mother won't get to experience another chance at life, won't get to enjoy a world without her husband. She won't see her brother ever again, won't greet old friends or meet new people.

She's dead. She's a pile of bones in the fucking ground. She hadn't even died looking like herself.

He shoves his face into his hands and sobs, and that's all he does for a little while. Nobody comes to check on him or the room. He doesn't wonder why. He doesn't even have the sense to.

His chest heaves and his lungs are empty and heavy. His bones are thin and weightless. His feet are tingling and his head is too big and too small, and his eyes burn and his teeth feel like knives as he bites down on his skin, trying to smother the sobs but to no avail.

His tears run out eventually, and after he can't cry anymore, he stares at the pieces of glass on the ground, feels the dangerous headache form again, feels it boom and crackle like thunder. He's not shaking anymore. He's just...sitting.

He should get up. He should get up.

Somehow, he drags himself to his feet. He stares at what's left of the mirror above the sink and breathes in deeply. It rips him open on the way down and on the way up.

And then he focuses, frowns at his reflection with a fabricated and fake unease, and says with the stance of a shy and small teenager, "My name's Neil Josten."

**Author's Note:**

> hope it was good <3 have a nice day/night!  
> —  
> come yell with me on tumblr — [@lacuniaa](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/lacuniaa)  
> & check out my twitter!! — [@lacuniaa](https://twitter.com/lacuniaa)


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